


hold for the applause

by DivineProjectZero



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, implied polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, once Taron sees it, he <i>can’t stop seeing it.</i></p><p>(or: the one where Hartwin is to blame for the Firtherton.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold for the applause

**Author's Note:**

> Self-betaed and not Brit-picked. All mistakes are mine. Constructive feedback is always welcome.
> 
> I did very limited research. I know nothing about what the filming schedule or any other aspects of these people's lives are like. I apologize to everybody who is featured in this fic. Especially Taron. Again, all of this is made up.
> 
> Let's never speak about this ever again.

When Taron first gets the script for Kingsman, he doesn’t see it.

He’s too busy trying to keep his heart from seizing every time he so much as remembers that he’s going to be on the big screen with Colin Firth, and Mark Strong, and Samuel L. Jackson, and _Sir Michael Caine_ , Jesus Christ—

The point is, he’s freaking out a fair bit during the time he gets the script and he’s still dazzled by all the talent in one room when they gather for the read-through, alternately too preoccupied with being hyperaware of Colin Firth’s every move beside him and with trying his best to sound like a proper actor with training and all, so he doesn’t really see it in the script, in the words, until he’s already two weeks into filming.

-

It happens with Taron and Colin sitting side by side, flipping through their scripts between retakes of the scene in the medical wing. Mark is absent, having been accosted by makeup to have powder reapplied to his head, thus it falls to Taron and Colin to make the discovery by themselves.

“Is it just me,” Colin says, having flipped to another scene because he’s solid with this one, infuriatingly talented man he is, “or does it seem like Harry and Eggsy have a rather _interesting_ relationship?”

Taron’s insides tingle a little at the way Colin pitches his voice low to emphasize _interesting_ , but the sensation is forgotten in favor of Colin’s random revelation. “You think we’re laying on the father-son vibes too strongly over the mentor-protégé thing?”

Colin frowns, just a little, flipping to yet another scene and scanning his lines in search of something, perhaps proof of whatever he’s trying to say. “I was thinking more along the lines of something more intimate, actually.” His eyebrows furrow. “This would have been less obvious if you had another love interest.”

“What?” Taron leans over to look at Colin’s script. There’s nothing unusual there. “You think Harry is Eggsy’s love interest?”

“He did save Eggsy from jail, and then fought a group of thugs for him,” Colin says, getting this focused look in his eyes, the one that means he’s doing some character-building in his head. “Harry doesn’t seem like the type to have many close acquaintances; I’d wager that he’s fairly attached to Eggsy, in more than just a paternal sense.”

“Very funny, Colin,” Taron says. Then: “I bet Eggsy wouldn’t mind the whole sugar daddy thing, especially if it’s a fit bloke like Harry Hart.”

And just like that, Colin snorts, broken out of his backstory construction for the mysterious Harry Hart, and they both laugh about it until Mark comes back and they’re called in for another retake.

-

The thing is, once Taron sees it, he _can’t stop seeing it_.

In the script, it’s not obvious at all, but once Taron is on set, wearing Eggsy’s face and speaking in Eggsy’s voice and feeling Eggsy’s emotions, the _thing_ between him and Harry slides right into place, that tiny sliver of tension that shouldn’t be there between simple mentor and protégé. 

Colin feels it too.

“I think Eggsy wants to shag Harry,” Taron confesses, first thing in the morning before they go film the train track scene. 

“I’m fairly certain Harry feels the same,” Colin replies.

The terrible, squirmy feeling in Taron’s stomach settles at that, relieved to know that this is something they can agree on. He lets this aspect of Eggsy solidify within himself, allows his hips to stretch a little further up when he’s tied down and pretending to face down a train. Lets his legs fall open the tiniest bit wider when Harry says, “Bloody well done.”

Eggsy hears the pride and satisfaction in Harry’s voice. Taron hears something more.

-

So it becomes their inside joke, as much as it can be a joke while they still remain wholeheartedly serious about their characters’ feelings. Taron casually jokes about how Eggsy probably walks behind Harry to check out his arse; Colin comments that Harry most likely had an ulterior motive for bringing Eggsy back to his own home for their twenty-four hours.

Sophie hears about it soon enough, and she joins in with her own few jokes—“How’s your love interest doing?” she asks Taron over coffee, ever smug that Roxy isn’t being relegated to that position—while Mark looks at Taron pityingly before going off to elbow Colin, hiss something menacing in his ear. 

They joke about it with each other, giggling like schoolboys over the idea that perhaps Harry is a bit like a peacock in a mating dance when he busts arses in the pub. Colin becomes even more dramatically British when he dons Harry’s mask in front of the camera, positively preening in front of Eggsy, and Taron nearly pisses himself laughing, breaking character to double over and hiccup in mirth from the sheer outrageousness of it all.

Matthew just shakes his head at them with the paternal sigh all film directors seem to perfect over time. Colin smiles like he’s proud of himself for making Taron lose it, and Taron adores the man, can almost empathize with Eggsy there, for just a moment.

-

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Taron says, trying to get his breath back. He feels wobbly from all the hysterical laughing that had burst out of him as soon as Matthew’d called scene. 

“It wasn’t too shabby, was it?” Colin asks, grinning. They’re standing in the shop on Savile Row, waiting for Matthew to finish reviewing the scene they just did and determine if they need another retake or not. “I think it was rather fitting.”

Going by how half the staff behind the cameras are trying not to laugh themselves into a coma, Taron would say Colin’s little ad-lib was a smashing success, but still. 

“‘One does not pop their cherry in dressing room one,’ really?” Taron tries not to collapse into helpless laughter again. “You dirty old man.”

“Harry is a dirty old man,” Colin agrees. “He wants to bend Eggsy over in front of the full-body mirror.”

“Eggsy would be amenable to that,” Taron shoots back, smirking. This is practically routine, now. “Eggsy thinks Harry looks dashing in his suit, but would look even better with the suit on the floor.”

“Harry wants Eggsy in a dashing suit as well. Wants to spoil him very much, in fact.” 

Taron hums, considering. “Eggsy deserves it. After the life he’s been through.”

“He does,” Colin says, leaning a little closer so that their shoulders are nearly brushing, his gaze going soft and affectionate as he smiles down at Taron. Then he blinks, drawing back a little as he says in a pondering voice, “Harry’s very fond of Eggsy.” 

And, well, that’s the point. But they look at each other, dumbstruck, like they’ve realized that they might have just crossed a line, might have brought something that should have been private little thoughts about their characters and thrown it onto the set, onto the screen. Harry and Eggsy’s romance isn’t just in their heads, anymore. Isn’t a private joke, or even a character detail they built as actors that will never see the light of day. It’s a cold hard fact, right there on camera, as plain as the words Harry ad-libbed only five minutes ago.

“Right, I think we’re good,” Matthew says. Taron gets a distant feeling that the cherry-popping line is definitely going to make the cut.

-

So yeah, the joke stops being a joke at some point, because it’s bleeding into their acting, into every choice Taron makes as Eggsy. His eyes linger on Harry a split second longer than they should. He raises his chin and pouts his lips and he wills Harry to notice him, and every glance that Harry slants towards him is like a burst of oxygen in a house on fire, fueling the flames, filling his lungs, burning him inside out.

Between takes, Taron pulls back from Eggsy’s emotions, takes a good hard look, and curses to himself viciously. 

Eggsy’s in _love_ with Harry.

Taron really should have seen that coming.

-

“Do you think they slept together, before this scene?” Taron asks, twirling a fork between his fingers. He’d spent last night agonizing over whether to tell Colin or not about Eggsy’s feelings, then he’d felt like an idiot, because this was his _character’s_ feelings, not something to make a bloody secret about. If anything, they needed to talk over whether Harry and Eggsy’s feelings were mutual, and if so, whether the both of them were aware of it. It would affect their acting choices, after all.

“Definitely not in HQ,” Colin says, thoughtful as he straightens the apron tied around his waist. He has pecs, which the Eggsy in Taron had noticed gleefully, and now that he’s aware of them Taron has a hard time forgetting about them. “I doubt that there was any privacy or time for that.”

“Theoretically, Eggsy spent months in that godforsaken HQ,” Taron points out. “Sounds like plenty of time.”

“Merlin would not have let it happen,” Colin says. “Mark is adamant.”

“Mark doesn’t know how badly Eggsy wants to get into Harry’s pants,” Taron retorts. Mark is marvelous, and gracious enough to let Taron take a selfie with him to send to Taron’s mum and even sign an autograph for her, but he’s been remarkably unhelpful about the entire Harry and Eggsy romance, instead opting to stare at Colin mulishly with a raised eyebrow whenever the subject comes up. Taron wonders if this has anything to do with Mark and Colin’s long history together through various films. If Mark is having some rather jealous feelings about this. 

(Taron has watched Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, as well as pretty much Colin’s entire filmography; he’s aware that Eggsy isn’t the first male love interest for a Colin Firth character. He’s also aware that if all movies existed in some weird, cohesive universe, Eggsy would be deathly jealous of Matthew Goode and Nicholas Hoult’s characters—wait, that doesn’t make sense, scratch that.)

“Perhaps last night,” Colin offers, and it takes Taron a good two minutes to parse the meaning of ‘last night’ as in Eggsy and Harry’s last night, not yesterday night when Taron and Sophie and Colin had gone out for drinks. “Twenty-four hours is a long time.”

“Maybe after the martini scene,” Taron muses. “Eggsy would have totally jumped Harry.”

“What makes you think Harry didn’t make the first move?” Colin asks. “If anybody is leading the relationship, he is.”

Taron’s about to argue about that when they’re called to get into position. So he fits himself into Eggsy and grins at the man in front of him, loosens his body language into a more languid one, conjures an idea of how last night might have gone.

Harry brandishes a butter knife in a gesture of a challenge accepted.

-

After the second take, Matthew sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You two,” he says, and both Taron and Colin have the grace to look a little sheepish at that. “Tone it down. It’s still an action movie.” He waits until Colin and Taron both say yes to that, then gestures for everybody to get in position. “Right, take three.”

-

Sophie is cuddling her poodle while Taron coaxes George to not gnaw on his shoes. They’re having lunch in her trailer, talking about their upcoming scenes, and how they’re going to share screentime with Michael Caine—they’re both still not over that, but Ed takes the cake for ‘most embarrassingly overcome by the regality of Michael Caine,’ because he’s apparently been a die-hard fan since second form—when she points out, “So you’re filming that awful screaming match with Colin tomorrow, aren’t you.”

“I wouldn’t call it a screaming match,” Taron says, hesitant. It might be a screaming match, for all he knows, but Harry doesn’t seem like the type to scream. Eggsy, yeah, maybe. Especially if Harry were pounding him into the mattress, then—

Taron chokes on his carrots.

“Are you alright?” Sophie asks, smacking his back, keeping her hand there until he’s breathing properly again. 

“I think so,” Taron manages. Where the hell did _that_ come from, he wonders.

Well, right, he’s spent the last couple weeks joking about how Eggsy’d totally hit that, every time he had a chance to see Colin dressed as Harry, and they’ve talked about this. It’s nothing new.

Except, Taron’s never really thought about the technicalities of it, not in graphic detail, not when he was _Taron_. Those kinds of thoughts were Eggsy thoughts, the kinds of things Eggsy would roll around in his head for his own fun. And even then, Taron hadn’t ever delved deeper than the very surface, the vague sense of heat and sweat and pleasure. 

He hadn’t thought of what Harry would look like during a blowjob, if he’d be cool and collected or wrecked and disheveled. What Harry would sound like, with three fingers inside him. What Harry would feel like, cock inside Eggsy and fucking him slow and sweet. 

“Oh god,” Taron mutters.

Sophie gives him an enquiring look, and he quickly redirects his train of thought. “I mean, it’s probably one of the most emotionally intense scenes I have to do.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Sophie says. Easy for her to say. She’s not the one who very nearly got hard at the thought of Harry and Eggsy having sex.

-

It’s truly unfortunate that Taron’s brain, once having latched onto an idea, will never let go of it. Also, he sometimes forgets bringing his brain-to-mouth filter to set, which results in him blurting, “So do you think Harry would like getting sucked off by Eggsy?”

Colin blinks up from his script, because for once Taron’s the one who’s not going through his lines last minute, and stares at him for a moment, perhaps wavering between telling Taron off for distracting him before their big scene and telling Taron that his obsession with what exactly Harry and Eggsy do in private is now bordering on creepy. Eventually, he settles with, “Hadn’t we established that already?”

“Well, I was thinking of specifics,” Taron says.

“How much more specific does it get than the idea that Harry loves getting blown by Eggsy?” Colin asks, and for a moment Taron’s train of thought derails and crashed through his skull, because instead of _does Harry prefer to be sitting or standing_ he almost says _but does Harry_ love _Eggsy_ —

“Get ready, it’s a big one!” Matthew calls out to them, and they’re both snapping to attention, Eggsy wading to the forefront of Taron’s mind, the unasked question locked in his throat.

-

They do one take, then a second, then a third—it drags on and on. Eventually, they call for a short break and Matthew pulls Taron aside to a corner, out of sight from the crew and Colin.

“I’m sorry,” Taron blurts. There’s a hot, prickly sensation creeping up his skin, an awareness that he’s the one holding everybody back. He can feel it, in his mouth and head and stomach, how every time he opens his mouth to say his lines, Eggsy stalls his feet and snarls and turns into someone else. Someone foreign. It’s astoundingly humiliating, to have so little control over his character, as an actor, and the fact that Colin has to turn into Harry again and again because Taron can’t do his goddamn job makes him want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Don’t be. It’s a tough scene,” Matthew says, shrugging. He’s not the kind to coddle, but he’s not the kind to get angry, either. He gets to the point straight away. “The anger’s good. Try using more of the pain, though. This is about you protecting yourself. You’re not intending to hurt him until you lash out at him.”

“Okay,” Taron says, and watches Matthew nod and move away, giving Taron the space to think over what he needs before they go in for another take. He stands in the corner and thinks of Eggsy, who’s back in Harry’s home and losing ground, everything he’s worked for in the past months gone because of a trigger he refused to pull. Eggsy is angry, the fury cut off before he got his hands on Dean, still simmering in his blood. Angry, spoiling for a fight, furious that Harry ever expected him to shoot his dog, that Harry did it a long time ago. 

Eggsy, with his ego bruised by losing the seat of Lancelot, cut open by Harry’s anger and disappointment, the fury bleeding out of him on the tiles of the loo with Mr. Pickle in it.

“Taron.” He turns his head to find Colin, approaching him with an unreadable look on his face. 

He starts saying, “I’m so sorry,” but Colin cuts him off.

“Please, there’s no need to apologize. I’ve done much worse than you at your age.” Colin fiddles with the hem of his cardigan, frowning at it before he looks at Taron with a curious look. “I do have an idea, if you would like to hear it.”

Colin rarely offers advice unless someone asks him for it, so either Taron’s acting has been that shitty today, or this is more interesting than just advice. “Sure.”

“Pretend we’re talking while in character,” Colin says. “Act like we’ve just been reunited after this scene.”

After this scene, Eggsy and Harry never meet again. 

“So, theoretically,” Taron says, hesitant but game for it. Talking to each other while in character is a common enough exercise. “Are we pretending you came back from the dead?”

“Perhaps focus less on plot and more on character motivation,” Colin says.

Taron thinks it over, then nods, gesturing at Colin to go ahead. Colin blinks, straightening up just a little, and there’s Harry. Just Harry. 

“Eggsy,” Harry says, soft and quiet, and his knees almost buckle. “I’ve said terrible things to you before I left.”

Taron lets the London accent roll thick on his tongue, lets Eggsy’s head tick to the side, exhaling a self-deprecating laugh. “Bruv, you ain’t the only one. Pretty sure I’d be winning if it were a competition to see who’s the bigger dick.”

“Did you mean what you said?” Harry asks.

“Of fucking course not,” he snaps back. It hurts to even think that Harry could think that Eggsy thinks so little of him. “I—it came out wrong, I didn’t mean any of it.”

“And yet you still managed to cut me where I was the most vulnerable,” Harry murmurs, leaning forward, one hand against the wall. “You’ve never been cruel, Eggsy. Why now, why to me?”

Cruel. God, it’s true. _What, you’ve got him stuffed here also?_ It’s cruel, even if Eggsy was lashing out on reflex, even if it was just out of anger and hurt. Feeling humiliated and angry isn’t new to Eggsy; he’s been dealt worse. 

And yet he’d opted for the worst words he could find, had hurled them in the face of the man he cared about the most, because—

“You fucking terrify me,” he says, and he’s shaking, his voice thick with fear, and suddenly it all slots into place. He’s scared. He’s scared of disappointing Harry, of having already disappointed Harry. Of losing Harry. And it’s the scariest thing, to love someone and know that they could cripple you with just a few well-placed words, with a cold downward turn to their lips. 

He’d lashed out at Harry because he couldn’t bear Harry hurting him first.

Now, Harry’s so close. He smells like freshly laundered cotton and clove, and he’s less than an arm’s length away, his shirt collar just begging to be tugged at, to be used as leverage to pull Harry closer so that Eggsy can find out if he tastes just as good as he smells.

“And why is that?” Harry asks.

_Because I love you and you don’t love me back_ , Eggsy almost says.

Taron slams the fucking brakes and says, “I think I got it, Colin, thanks. We’re good.” 

Harry leans back, his shoulders slumping, and Colin smiles at him with a warm, proud smile. Taron’s heart hammers in his chest, thudding against his ribcage at the weight of Colin’s hand on his shoulder. Colin pulls him towards the set, his hand still on Taron’s shoulder. “Ready to take another crack at it, then?”

-

This time, the anger comes out like a honed blade, sharpened by fear, and Eggsy screams in his head, unwilling to regret his choice, furious that Harry makes him want to regret it anyway. Terrified of just how much power Harry holds over him, that this could be the end of everything.

“What, you’ve got him stuffed here also?” Eggsy snaps, and his stomach drops as soon as the words leave his lips.

He apologizes for his words, for causing that awful look on Harry’s face, and when Harry says, “You should be,” all of his insides turn to glass, shattering at the way Harry looks at him, lacerating him from the inside-out. Harry walks away, and Eggsy swallows down _please don’t go_.

Matthew yells, “Cut!”

-

Taron feels shaky all over, the aftermath of the scene still sending tingling sensations to his fingertips. It’s the sign of a scene well-played, proof that he was in there a hundred percent with no punches pulled, and it’s almost the same high as when he’s standing on a stage with an entire audience gasping and laughing at his every movement.

“You did very well,” Colin says, grinning, waiting for the staff to set up the cameras for a new master angle. “I knew you could do it.”

“Proud of me, are you?” Taron asks, still in Eggsy’s headspace, buoyed up with breathless eagerness to please, and even bold enough to throw in a wink, delighting in the way Colin smiles even wider with that glowing look that’s been melting hearts since the 1980s. 

“Of course I am.” The lines around Colin’s eyes crinkle, and Taron feels his heart stumble, feels his fingers itch to trace every line etched into Colin’s face, follow those trails with his tongue, lick those lips open and delve his tongue inside. To curl his fingers into the soft wool of that cardigan and demand that Colin repeat himself and say those words against Taron’s open mouth. “You’re exceptional.”

He’s not sure if those words are meant for Taron or if they’re meant for Eggsy, but either way, it helps him keep his head in the game. When they go back in for another take, it’s Eggsy’s show, and Taron smiles behind Eggsy’s skin, all the way through.

-

“It seems like Mark won’t be able to make it for drinks tonight,” Colin says after they’re done for the day, pocketing his phone. “Which leaves just the two of us.”

That statement should _not_ make Taron feel like the temperature went up by five degrees. “Right. Er. If you want to just take the night off—?”

“Nonsense,” Colin says. He smiles with a mischievous tilt to his lips, almost the way Harry would smile, and something swoops low in Taron’s belly. “I believe your exemplary performance should be rewarded, and I could do with a drink myself.”

“Positive reinforcement, huh? Gonna train me into a good little actor, then?” 

Colin’s lips curve up even more, and there’s a hint of teeth in that smile that is distinctly less Colin, more _Harry_ , that makes Taron’s inner Eggsy take control of his lungs, hold his breath. 

“You’re already a fine actor,” Colin says in a low voice, “but I wouldn’t refuse if you asked me for a guiding hand.” There’s a subtle emphasis to the last two words.

“Oh god,” Taron says, his face on fire, and Colin laughs, clapping a hand to Taron’s back. Colin is teasing, that’s all there is to it, but there’s a part of him that wants that hand to slide lower, to follow the curve of his spine and brush against the small of his back, for that hand to delve lower, _closer_ —

Fucking fuckity fuck, this Eggsy situation is getting out of hand. 

-

They’re sitting in a booth sequestered away in a corner of the pub, away from any prying eyes, discussing their upcoming scenes and their schedules. Now that they’re done with the brunt of their scenes together—leaving the scenes where Harry bails Eggsy out, the pub scene, and the scenes where Harry recruits Eggsy as an agent—they won’t be able to spend as much time on set together. 

“It’s a terrible shame,” Colin sighs over his pint. “Our chemistry is the best part of the film.”

Taron nearly chokes on his gin. “I, uh. I think Matthew’s actually looking forward to not filming any more of our shared scenes.”

“Matthew’s simply worried that our chemistry is overwhelming the other aspects of the film,” Colin says primly. Then, after a moment of consideration: “Which is a valid concern, I suppose. Harry and Eggsy are rather a handful.”

“We’ll tamp it down for scenes that take place earlier in the film. We can control ourselves for the remainder of filming,” Taron says, mostly to reassure himself.

“But Harry and Eggsy won’t control themselves,” Colin says, earnest and flushed, and he looks so fucking charming like that. “Take, for example, your question from earlier today. Harry obviously wants Eggsy on his knees, preferably not wearing anything, and choking on his cock.”

Colin’s mouth, shaping the word _cock_ , with the consonants clicking sharply on his tongue, is obscene. Taron chokes on his gin this time, setting his drink down hard enough for the contents to slosh over his hand a little, coughing his way back to the land of the living while Colin unhelpfully reaches over and pats his back. 

“ _What_ ,” Taron gasps, after his lungs relearn how to process oxygen again.

“You did ask, earlier,” Colin says, then shrugs.

This is the moment when Taron should laugh this whole thing off, take a step back and ease off of this game that they’re playing. Blame the alcohol and never speak of this again. This is that moment.

Instead, he says, “I think Eggsy would prefer being on a bed with Harry over him so that he’s not the only one choking, you know.”

Colin raises an eyebrow, a grin starting to spread on his lips. “The sixty-nine, what an excellent choice.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, then casually continues with, “Although, I must point out that Harry doesn’t have a gag reflex, so it’s very unlikely that he’ll be choking.”

“That isn’t even fair,” Taron protests. He’s beyond the hot flush of embarrassment now; they’re raising the stakes, and Taron wants to give as good as he can get. The buzz of alcohol pushes him to play it fast and loose, to let Eggsy’s instinctive _want_ to pool through him, flooding his brain with images Taron’s never looked at so closely before. “So Harry could get a gold medal in the cock-sucking olympics, is that it?” He’s laughing as he says it, the awkwardness burned away, leaving only the giddy recklessness boosted by the booze. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that he gets gold for taking cock up his arse, too.”

Under the table, Colin’s leg presses against Taron’s shin, and the warm line of contact brings everything into sharp focus, the proximity of Colin when he leans forward, the warmth of Colin’s eyes, the quirk of Colin’s lips before he says, “Silver, actually. I believe gold would go to Eggsy.”

Colin’s leg presses the slightest bit harder against his own, and suddenly the contact sends a lick of fire thrilling up Taron’s spine, the heat ricocheting up straight to his lizard brain, the image blooming unbidden: Harry lying on a bed, Eggsy straddling him, moaning wantonly with Harry’s thick cock splitting him open. Eggsy, bouncing up and down, whining for _more_ and _harder_ and _please_ , until Harry flips them over and his cock slides out so that Eggsy can spread himself open and beg for Harry’s cock like a whore, and—

Taron drops his glass so that it topples over, spilling what little remaining gin he had all over the table, and he startles. “Fuck.”

He grabs a napkin and wipes at the mess—thank goodness he was almost done with his drink anyway—and looks up to see Colin leaning back into his seat with his lips pursed together, a faraway look in his eyes. Then Colin blinks, abruptly bringing his focus back to Taron, and he offers his most bland, charming smile. “I think we’ve had enough to drink then, yes?”

“Er,” Taron stutters, “Yeah, sure.”

Colin goes to close their tab while Taron desperately wills down his half-hard cock, ignores how there’s an empty ache inside him that he wants filled, fucked out of him. By the time he’s following Colin out of the pub, he’s feeling less like a horny chav about to beg for his mentor’s cock and more like an idiot actor who is having one hell of an identity crisis.

-

The lighting crew members are milling about, adjusting different lights to best capture Eggsy and Merlin in the plane cabin, when Mark casually says, “How did last night go?”

Taron’s mind immediately flashes back to the pub, sitting across from Colin, the warmth of his leg pressed to Taron’s, the escalation of their little game, the image of Harry balls-deep inside Eggsy’s arse, and he manages to sound not like he’s being strangled when he replies with, “Good. Great, really.”

“Was it, now,” Mark says, his eyes narrowing. 

Taron is an actor, RADA trained and all, so he should be able to feign nonchalance easily. It shouldn’t be difficult to smile and move onto another topic other than last night and Taron’s unfortunate erections, but Taron has somehow lost his brain-to-mouth filter again and he instead splutters, “Apparently Harry doesn’t have a gag reflex.”

Mark stares at him. Taron wants to die.

“I don’t even want to know,” Mark finally says. Then: “But for the record, Colin really doesn’t have a gag reflex.”

Which, apparently, translates into Harry not having a gag reflex as well. The image of Harry on his knees, perfect hair ruffled and his eyes dark with greed, his lips stretched obscenely around Eggsy’s cock, moving in and swallowing all the way to the root, makes Taron’s own cock twitch.

“How do you even know that?” Taron asks, trying to not show how close he is to getting hard on set.

“I’ve filmed too many things with that bloody menace,” Mark sighs, which is both an answer and not one at all. Then he claps a hand to Taron’s shoulder, leans in, and says, “I don’t know what kind of roleplaying you two’ve been up to, but if he’s making you uncomfortable, you just let me know, son. He can be a bit dense about boundaries, sometimes.”

“Thanks,” Taron says, with an awkward chuckle. He resolutely does not think about how Eggsy wants Harry to cross all kinds of boundaries, slide an elegant hand up Eggsy’s shirt and thumb a nipple, palm Eggsy’s crotch through his jeans, whisper nasty things into Eggsy’s ear—

Taron readjusts his trousers and silently thanks Matthew for taking that moment to call Mark over.

-

It’s normal for a blokes to get an erection when he’s thinking about sex, right? It’s not weird that Taron’s getting erections from thinking about Harry and Eggsy, especially when they have some really intense chemistry going on. Even if they’re based off of Colin and himself in a way.

It’s not weird at all, right?

(And if it’s a little less than normal to have trouble drawing the line between Eggsy’s lust and his own, if he’s caught in those moments when he wakes up hard and panting where he can’t discern whether it’s Eggsy who wants Harry or Taron who wants him, then nobody else has to know.)

-

“How does Mark know that you don’t have a gag reflex?” Taron asks, because it’s been bothering him for a while now and he’s finally alone with Colin again, both of them tucked away in their chairs until they’re called on set. 

It’s a testament to how much they’ve grown accustomed to each other that Colin doesn’t even blink at Taron’s non-sequiturs anymore. “I believe we were discussing how much we abhor the dentist. Mark mentioned that it’s uncomfortable when they put something too close to the back of his throat.” Colin shrugs. “I told him that I didn’t mind.”

“So it’s not like you’ve demonstrated,” Taron says, and then promptly wonders if he should go brain himself on a nearby concrete wall, because _what the fuck_. 

“No, I haven’t,” Colin confirms, smile full of bemusement. “No need to be jealous of Mark; you know that I prefer you much more than him.” It’s part of a running joke between them, apparently, thanks to the dozen projects they’ve worked on together, and now it’s standard practice for Colin and Mark to pretend to be unable to stand each other whenever they share a set. It’s kind of cute, how they’ll dramatically snub each other during filming but are already making plans to have dinner once they wrap. Taron doesn’t really stand a chance against Mark, but he flushes and melts a little on the inside, makes a poor attempt at deflecting.

“I’m not _jealous_.”

“But I am,” Colin says. Taron’s brain blanks out before Colin continues, “Your mother still prefers Mark over me, doesn’t she.”

It’s only until Taron processes Colin’s sly smile that he realizes Colin is joking, and all the alarm and tension and white-hot heat bleeds out of him as he hisses out a low whine. “ _Colin.”_

“And Harry’s jealous,” Colin adds, casual as you please, with absolutely no regard at all for Taron’s skyrocketing pulse and blood pressure. “Eggsy does end up spending months with Merlin and the other recruits while Harry’s in a coma. Not to mention that that there were an awful lot of takes for you to go and whisper in his ear.”

“Have you been monitoring the dailies?” Taron asks, flabbergasted. Colin wasn’t even _filming_ anything that day. “And why would Harry be jealous of Merlin? Eggsy doesn’t want to shag Merlin’s brains out.”

“You’re right, you don’t.” There’s a sharpness in that tone, a familiar crispness to the accent. “You want me,” Harry fucking Hart says, smug smile and narrowed eyes and bloody gorgeous, beckoning Eggsy to the forefront of Taron’s mind like a siren song. 

“Thought braggin’ wasn’t gentlemanly?”

“You’re right,” Harry says, with his damned shark smile that makes Eggsy wonder what it would be like, to have those teeth marking him _everywhere_. “There’s nothing gentlemanly about what I want to do to you.”

Harry’s leaning over his armrest to narrow the distance between them, and Eggsy is mirroring him, leaning in inch by cursed inch. Part of Taron feels the need to pull away, to re-establish the boundaries and stop playing this game. A significantly different part of Taron, the part where Eggsy comes alive inside of him, wants to haul the other man over by that damned tie and kiss him. Wants to crawl into that lap, cling to those broad shoulders, and grind down, feel what must surely be a mouth-wateringly generous serving of cock press against the cleft of his arse so that he can throw his head back and moan, offer up his throat to those teeth.

He wants—

_Colin_ blinks and twists away, allowing Christine to check his hair and smiling at her thumbs up before turning back to Taron. “Ready?”

Taron ducks his head down and readjusts his snapback, trying to hide the confusion that’s ripped through him, tearing him down in half, his heart damn near beating its way out of his chest. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

There’s a moment of disorientation, like the world’s gone off-kilter and gravity’s gone sideways, where Taron’s thoughts go wild. Then the world rights itself, Taron doesn’t have a panic attack, and he proves that he’s a fucking actor by walking on set with a smile and a swagger that are the best lies he’s ever told.

-

He has the panic attack later in his trailer where nobody can see him.

Taron had wanted _Colin_. He’d failed to draw the line between Harry and Colin—hell, he couldn’t even draw the line between himself and Eggsy. He isn’t even sure who wants who in this game anymore.

This is all Eggsy’s fault. It has to be. There’s no way Taron just started lusting after his coworker, even if said coworker has impossibly broad shoulders and illegally long legs. This is Eggsy’s lust overflowing into Taron—or maybe it’s always been Taron, just building Eggsy off of what was already there within Taron’s psyche. 

And maybe Taron’s been having the odd dream or two about eyes the color of melting chocolate, but that could just as easily be about Harry as it could be about Colin. It _should_ be Harry, because Eggsy’s mad for Harry. Because it’s safe to feel this way about someone who doesn’t actually exist. If it’s not about Harry, then it becomes about Colin, and that doesn’t feel safe at all.

If it’s about Colin, then everything becomes real. And it’ll all be on Taron, with no Eggsy to blame.

-

They’re finishing their second take for their conversation in the pub when Matthew decides to switch up the blocking a bit.

“Okay, I want Eggsy to stay sitting this time, no moving back.” Matthew beckons Taron to scoot closer to the camera, instead of pressing against the wall like they’ve been trying for the past couple takes. “I want less distance between you two, and Eggsy to look less scared.”

“Less scared, more confident?” Taron hedges.

“Not confident; more eager. To comply with Harry,” Matthew corrects.

Eager. That’s something that Eggsy really shouldn’t have a problem with. Taron wants to go give himself a concussion against one of the cameras and wipe out the idea of Eggsy very happily sliding to his knees and sliding confident palms up Harry’s thighs.  

Colin is quirking an amused eyebrow that suggests he knows exactly what Taron is thinking about. It’s infuriating and he wants to kiss that look right off his face.

“Right, eager,” Taron mutters, redirecting his gaze so that he’s looking at anywhere but Colin. He hopes his erection will die down by the time they’re done with the next take. “I can do that.”

-

Between one take and the next, two things happen:

Taron’s erection subsides, thankfully.

Unfortunately, it comes back in full force when Colin leans close, wearing a smile that looks too much like Harry’s, and says, “No need to restrain yourself. The appreciation is quite reciprocated.” Then gives Taron a quick, heated once-over and then leans back, cool and professional as you please.

And fuck it, Taron doesn’t really care whether it was Colin or Harry who just said that. Eggsy sure as hell doesn’t care. In their next take, Taron let’s Eggsy’s want shine through, channels his best approximation of a guy who’s a bit scared and totally turned on at the same time.

When Harry claps a hand to his shoulder, he almost comes in his pants. 

-

After Taron gets the okay to leave first, he bolts to his trailer and slams the door closed with his back while his hands scramble to undo his jeans and shove them down. He shouldn’t, he really fucking shouldn’t, but Colin said he’d _appreciated_ whatever the fuck he saw and had looked at Taron like he wanted to shove him back against the wall and keep him there, and that pretty much sounds like a go ahead for Taron to snake his fingers around his aching cock and hiss in relief.

There’s still the sticky, uncomfortable residue of guilt inside of him when he thinks of long fingers and warm skin as _Colin_ , so he opts for a guilt-free wank by thinking of just Harry. Harry in suits so sharp they could cut you open, Harry with big hands that could take you apart piece by piece, hands that Eggsy—Taron?—wants all over him, mapping every inch of his skin. 

“Ah, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Taron pants, fucking into his fist urgently. He thinks of Harry’s hands on him, thinks of sucking on those long fingers, how Harry’d trace his spine and dip those wet fingers into the cleft of his arse, teasing lightly until Taron—Eggsy? Who the fuck cares—begged and whined and pleaded until those fingers were inside him, stretching him open, and they’d feel so good, so dirty and hot but not enough. Not as good as Harry’s cock. 

Taron thinks about what it would feel like, to be filled up like that with a low familiar voice growling into his ear, familiar hands holding him down until he bruised under the force, and he feels so _empty_ that he desperately shoves a hand between his legs and tries to reach back between the cheeks of his arse. His briefs are still covering most of him, so he makes do and rubs his fingertips over his hole through the cotton, _hard_. 

He comes into his fist with a choked whine and doesn’t let himself say Colin’s name. Doesn’t let himself dwell on Colin’s kind smiles and cheeky grins, and instead slams a door on the rising guilt in the back of his throat.

-

Okay, so Taron’s now officially wanking over Harry—and by extension, Eggsy—as some kind of fucked up proxy for Colin.

Taron hates himself.

The important part is that Colin does not learn of this, ever, or else Colin would probably hate Taron as well, and Taron doesn’t think he can handle a universe in which Colin Firth hates him.

-

The problem is, Colin is still playing the fucking game, and Taron doesn’t know how to tell him that someone torched the goddamn rulebook and that they’re playing with ticking time bombs that are bound to end in awkward boners and terrible revelations.

The bigger problem is, Taron doesn’t want to stop playing the game.

“I think you’d look lovely when you’re tied up,” Harry says, standing only inches away from where Eggsy’s leaning against the wall. They’re supposed to be discussing their scene for tomorrow over drinks, that’s why Taron dropped by Colin’s hotel room after all, but they’d barely touched their cans of beer before Taron had off-handedly mentioned Mark’s concerns about their ‘roleplaying’ and Colin had immediately accepted it as some sort of challenge.

Now, they’ve stood up and circled each other to one end of Colin’s room, having started a casual discussion about Kingsman while in-character and having ended up, as always, at their sex lives.

“You gonna use your posh neckties, bruv?” Eggsy brings his chin up, aiming for cocky, almost wobbling but firmly in-character. It’s hard for Taron not to surface through. He’s only wearing a teeshirt and jeans, while Colin’s in a casual shirt and black trousers, and it feels less like they’re in Kingsman and more like they’re just ordinary people, standing too close together. It’s tempting to give in, admit defeat, and make a break for the loo so he can jerk off.

“I should gag that insolent mouth of yours first,” Harry muses. “It would be a shame to ruin a perfectly good tie for that, though. Perhaps a ball gag?”

Even if Taron feels guilty about semi-indirectly wanking off over Colin, the the real-world consequences fall away from him when he’s in Eggsy’s shoes. It feels like the boundaries are less present when it’s about Harry and Eggsy, and Eggsy has no fucking shame at all, in Taron’s head, so Eggsy goes for what he wants. And right now, Eggsy wants to say every dirty thing Taron’s been thinking of but would never say out loud for fear of having to give up his career and hide out in Siberia for the rest of his life.

“Maybe you should use your cock to shut me up,” Eggsy challenges, baring his throat, shifting his stance so that his legs are spread just a bit wider, knowing full well what kind of invitation this looks like. Harry doesn’t move closer, which is both a relief and a disappointment, but his eyes go dark as they drink in the inviting picture Eggsy must make.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Harry says, turning a question into a statement of fact. “You’d be so good for me, with that clever tongue of yours.”

The way Harry sounds so _sure_ makes him want to sink to his knees right then and there and exceed all of Harry’s expectations, prove just how good he could be. His skin is too hot, too tight, and he’s not sure who he is until he opens his mouth and Eggsy’s southern London drawl leaves his lips. “And make me do all the work? Harry, I know you’re an old man and everythin’ but you gotta pull your weight.” 

“What if I want to see you work for it?” Harry queries. “I’d like to see you ride me.”

“I think you should bend me over your desk first,” Eggsy retorts, ignoring the frisson of heat in his lower belly at the image Harry’s words spark in him, the instinctive need to say _yes Harry_ and spread his legs.

Harry hums, then smiles. “Or, I could have you spread out on my bedsheets, make you stay still while I learned whether the skin at your ankles taste the same as the skin below your collarbone.” His voice goes lower. “I’d learn the taste of you in your most intimate places, lick you out until you beg for more than my tongue inside of you, have you wet and crying for it before I even undress.” 

For a single heated moment, the line between Taron and Eggsy is completely gone, forgotten in the wake of the lick of fire going through him like a shock of electricity, his cock hard and leaking in the confines of his jeans and his arse clenching on nothing, the magnetic pull of the lips right in front of him so strong that he’s sure that if he were to be kissed right now, touched even the slightest bit, he’d fly apart at the seams and give himself over, let himself be taken and claimed and undone.

He looks into dark brown eyes and watches them soften, crinkling a little in what looks like affection, and he can’t tell if he’s looking at Harry or Colin.

“I need to go,” Taron says, his breath half-caught in his aching chest. Eggsy isn’t there anymore.

-

(Taron couldn’t tell if he’d been looking at Harry or Colin.)

-

Taron fumbles his way out of Colin’s hotel room, giving half-arsed excuses about how the two sips of beer he had must be disagreeing with him, and makes his way back to his own room with his shirt pulled down to try cover his erection.

Two minutes after he’s made it back into his room, he’s naked from the waist down and laying on his back, jerking himself off in quick, short strokes while he’s shoving a lubed finger inside of him. He hisses at the intrusion and lifts his leg higher, folding it closer to his chest to reach better, deeper, replaying how Harry’s, _Colin’s_ , voice had sounded when he’d said _inside of you_. 

It makes him feel empty, like he needs to be filled up, and he hardly takes his time before he impatiently wriggles in a second finger beside the first one, whimpering a little at the sting of discomfort. He tugs his fingers out after a moment and squeezes more lube onto them, remembering the promise of _have you wet and crying for it,_ his skin tingling all over just at the memory of that voice, those words. How badly he wanted it to happen.

His fingers are slippery when he slides them back in his hole, slick like what a tongue might feel like, though longer and less warm. Taron clenches around them, moaning at the relief of having something inside of him but still wishing for more.

“Please, please, please.” He fucks himself on his fingers as hard as he can, pulling on his cock and whispering, begging, wishing Colin were here to listen and just _fuck him already_.

He comes gasping Colin’s name.

-

(He’d wanted it to be Colin.)

-

Later, after he’s cleaned the spunk off of himself and the sheets with a dull kind of guilt that comes from blatantly masturbating over an esteemed coworker, said esteemed coworker hammers in another nail in Taron’s proverbial coffin by sending him a text message that reads **Are you feeling better now?**

Then:  **If you’re still feeling unwell tomorrow, I’ll take responsibility and ask Matthew to delay filming.**

And this is the problem right there. Colin, for all the sexual banter they’ve been exchanging in lieu of character building, is one of the kindest, most decent human beings Taron’s ever had the luck of meeting. He’s a mentor and colleague and friend all wrapped in fluffy hair and a shy smile, and Taron feels vaguely dirty for using him as wank material.

The worse part is, it’s not even a matter of the occasional fantasy or two anymore. It’s the fact that Taron specifically _wants_ Colin, wants to kiss him and suck him off and ride him through the mattress. Wants to wake up next to him and cuddle him, too. Because Colin deserves nice things like that.

Taron replies to Colin’s texts with **No worries, feel better now. Won’t hold you back from going home when you’re so close to the finish line. See you tomorrow!**

Basically, the problem is that Taron now wants Colin, for sex and maybe a little more than that, and Colin has two days of filming left before he returns home to his wife and kids.

-

“Are you alright?” Colin asks as soon as he sees Taron the next day, and Taron almost gets a reflexive hard-on at the sound of his voice. 

“I’m fine.” Taron manages a grin. “I think I was just nervous that you’d be leaving and I’d be stuck here for another week. Matthew is intimidating without you, you know?” Which is a bald-faced lie; Matthew Vaughn is one of the least intimidating directors Taron’s ever seen in his life, especially compared to some of his instructors from RADA.

“I’m sure you’ll do excellently,” Colin says, his faith in Taron so obvious that Taron wants to preen. Just a bit. “And you must know that you’re always free to contact me whenever you want.”

“You might regret that when I call you up at four in the morning just so I can tell you that my mum still likes Mark more than you.”

“As long as you like me more than you like Mark, I think I’ll survive,” Colin says with a laugh, and Taron firmly reminds his prick that getting an erection on set would be a horrible idea.

-

They go out to the local pub in a group, Mark, Ed, Sophie, and Taron all dragging Colin out to congratulate him on getting to escape the special hell that is the Kingsman stunt training program a week early. Sofia and Samuel L. Jackson are off filming with Matthew, so it’s just them clinking their drinks and chatting in a booth, discussing upcoming projects and what the press tour is going to look like.

“We’re definitely slated for the San Diego Comic Con,” Sophie says. “Let’s hope people actually show up to our panel.”

“We’ve got Mr. Darcy and Lord Blackwood, not to mention Nick Fury and Batman’s butler. I think we’ll be good,” Taron states with optimism. “Besides, we’ve got Mark Hamill. They’d go for that, right?”

“Depends on how much we actually advertise his name,” Mark points out. “And I think I have something else scheduled for the summer, so you’re on your own.”

Colin mock-frowns at him. “You’re letting your fans at Comic Con down, Mark. Imagine the tears. They’ll be so disappointed that you didn’t join us.”

“Good try,” Mark deadpans. “But PR was never my thing.”

“Is it that bad?” Taron asks. “My publicist told me that I need to work on giving interviews.” Specifically, he’d been warned repeatedly to please keep his brain-to-mouth filter in place.

“Don’t stress about it. You’ll be fine.” Colin settles a warm hand on the small of Taron’s back, and the tension seeps out, leaving a pleasant buzz of heat and the prickling awareness of Colin’s touch. “And I believe we’ll be able to share most interviews, so I’ll be there to help.”

Sophie snorts. “At least they won’t be asking you ridiculous questions about your skincare routine or whatever idiotic things they ask actresses these days. I’ll bet twenty quid that I get asked about being the love interest at least three times.”

“Not looking to lose money, thanks,” Ed says. 

“Hopefully we can disabuse them of such outdated notions,” Colin remarks. “After all, if anybody is playing the love interest, it’s me.”

Colin’s hand slides infinitesimally lower on Taron’s back, and Taron ignores his twitching cock and rising flush in favor of laughing and saying, “Matthew would kill us if we said that in an interview.”

“But it would be worth it,” Sophie says, giggling, and they all laugh at the thought. Colin’s hand doesn’t move the entire time they sit there, and Taron doesn’t dare look at Colin’s face when he leans back into the touch, just basks in it until they leave.

-

Taron’s properly tipsy by the time they’re back in their hotel, so much so that Colin insists on walking him back to his room, which is a laugh because they’re only one floor apart. Still, it’s nice to monopolize Colin during his last night, even if it’s for the three minutes it takes for Colin to help unlock Taron’s door and guide him inside, the door clicking shut behind them.

“Tomorrow’s our last scene together,” Taron reminds Colin for what might be the fourth time. He’s a little fuzzy on that. “The Pretty Lady scene.”

“I think you’re mixing up Pretty Woman and My Fair Lady,” Colin says, exhaling a quiet chuckle. 

“Been mixin’ up a lot of things,” Taron admits gloomily. Then he narrows his eyes at Colin. “It’s your fault.”

“Is it, now. How so?” Colin leans back against the room door, and save for the reddish tinge to his cheeks, he looks completely unaffected by the alcohol, by the heat that seems ever present between then these days. Taron wants to grab him by the lapels and shake him apart, rattle him until every facade falls away and all that’s left of Colin is instinct and hunger, turn him into half as much of a wreck that Taron is. It’s infuriating, how this man can undo Taron so while he’s standing there untouched. Untouchable. 

“Been mixing Eggsy and me,” Taron says. “Can’t tell where I begin and where he ends. Keep muddlin’ stuff he feels with what I feel. It’s all very confusing.”

“Method acting can have its side-effects,” Colin says, looking unsure of where this is heading.

Taron sways a little closer, leaving only a foot of space between them, and pokes a finger at Colin’s chest. “And _you_. You and Harry. I mix you up. You’re mixing—you’re messin’ with my head.”

He’s almost choking on his words, his brain hazy with the effects of alcohol, the only remaining clarity in him overwhelmed by the panic that Colin’s leaving tomorrow, that the end is nearing. That he feels so much for this man when they’ll be going their separate ways soon enough. 

A warm hand incircles his own, lifting it away from where his accusing finger was pressed against Colin’s chest, and it feels like being lit up aflame, the drunken haze burning away as Colin engulfs Taron’s hand with his own. “Taron,” Colin murmurs. “What do you mean by mixing up Harry and me?”

“It’s just,” Taron starts, and has no idea how to end that sentence. There’s no easy way to explain how the lines have blurred between fantasy and reality, how Eggsy’s lust and love for Harry are entwined with Taron's want and affection for Colin, how the game isn’t really a game anymore. “Sometimes I think you feel something for me.”

Colin’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Of course I feel—Taron, you must know that I’m terribly attached to you.”

“Yeah, but not in the way Eggsy feels for Harry,” Taron tries to explain. “And I don’t know what Harry feels for Eggsy, but it’s not how you feel about me, right? So I just, sometimes I mistake Harry for you, or more like Harry’s feelings for your feelings.”

“And how does Eggsy feel for Harry?”

_Like he could conquer the world for him, like he could follow him through the fire. Like he could spend the rest of his entire life loving him and it still wouldn’t feel like enough._

“Too complicated,” Taron mutters.

“Alright,” Colin says, rubbing a soothing circle against the pulse-point in Taron’s wrist. There’s rueful twist to Colin’s lips, a half-hearted smile that makes Taron’s heart feel too bruised and sore. “That sums up everything about us, doesn’t it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am as well.” Colin squeezes Taron’s hand, stealing the breath out of Taron’s chest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or confuse you.” He lets go of Taron and turns away to open the door. “You should get some sleep.”

Taron doesn’t drag him back. Doesn’t say _please stay_. Doesn’t step closer and cup Colin’s cheek and draw him in for a kiss. He just watches Colin leave, an eery sense of déjà vu settling over him.

It’s only later when he’s in bed and staring up at his ceiling in the dark does he finally recognize that sense of finality. It was what Eggsy had felt like, when Harry had left him with _I’ll sort this mess out when I get back_. Like a farewell.

-

The next day, it’s like nothing happened. Colin greets Taron with a warm smile and sits beside him while Taron goes over his lines as the crew set up lights and cameras. They make small talk, listen to Matthew, and slide into character for each take.

The only difference is, there’s absolutely no joking about Harry and Eggsy’s relationship. The game is gone. 

Part of Taron is grateful. The bigger part of him sits up in alarm at the change, maybe even resenting it. He wants to ask Colin about it, perhaps bring the topic up in jest, but he doesn’t have the courage to discuss last night.

Instead, he settles for letting Eggsy take full reign in each take, channeling every ounce of confusion and weariness and longing into his every word and every muscle, imploring Harry to understand.

Harry asks, “Interested?”

_More than you’ll ever know._ “You think I got anything to lose?” 

-

Colin gets his things packed into a car and metes out goodbyes and hugs to the people who come bidding him farewell while Taron hangs back, waiting for the crowd to thin out and disperse until the car park is nearly empty. 

“I know you’ll be filming another project soon,” Colin says, “but if you have the time and opportunity, we could meet before the press tour.”

“Yeah, we’ll definitely do that.” Taron tries to smile, but it must be unconvincing, going by Colin’s look of concern.

“Call me. Or text. Make sure to keep in touch.”

“I know, I know.” Taron rocks back and forth on his feet, jittery. It takes him a few more moments before he gathers his guts and rocks up on his toes, throwing his arms around Colin in a tight hug, burrowing his face into Colin’s shoulder. His voice almost cracks when he says, “I’m gonna miss you.”

After the span of a heartbeat, Colin hugs him back, a firm hand settling on the back of Taron’s head, his lips ghosting across the shell of Taron’s ear, making Taron cling harder.“I’ll miss you too.”

After they separate, the loss of Colin’s warmth is a cold shock of hurt radiating through Taron’s entire body, aching through him long after Colin’s car pulls out and away.

-

The next day, Taron throws himself into filming because Colin’s absence doesn’t excuse him moping about on set and he needs to get his shit together if he wants to make a living out of acting. He sucks it up, ignores the numbness that threatens to crawl out from his chest and overtake his limbs, and does what he’s paid to do: he lies.

“You okay there?” Mark asks, pausing between gulping down his water before they enter the third take. 

Taron uses Zoe from makeup fussing over him as an excuse not to look Mark in the eye when he replies, “Never been better.”

-

Later, after Taron has a wank where he tries and fails not to think of Colin in the shower, he lets the self-loathing and frustration crash over him and cries himself to sleep.

-

The next day, Sophie takes one look at him and says, “Oh my god, makeup is going to murder you.”

Taron winces. “That bad?”

“Or maybe they won’t, because Matthew will look at you and he’ll cancel filming today because you look like _shit_. Then he can kill you instead.”

“He won’t kill me until we wrap.” Taron watches Sophie pull out an ice pack from her hotel room freezer. “I think.”

“Good thing we still have two hours before we’re needed on set.” Sophie strips him out of his jacket and pushes him towards her bed, relentless. Then she fairly shoves him onto it, turning him so he’s laying face-up. 

“Moving a little fast there,” Taron jokes, then squawks when she slaps the freezing pack over his eyes. 

“Shut up,” Sophie says. “Get some sleep. Maybe you’ll look more human after this, and then you can owe me a life debt for saving your sorry arse from makeup.”

-

A new ice pack, a face pack, and a miraculous power nap later, Sophie examines Taron’s face and nods in approval. “Alright. You look like you could be a movie star. Or an approximation of one, at any rate.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Taron sighs, and follows her out to head for the set.

They’re waiting for the lift when Sophie says, “I won’t ask you what happened, but you can talk to me, if you want.”

Sophie and Taron are never going to be the kind of best friends Roxy and Eggsy are, simply because Roxy and Eggsy have the kind of friendship forged by spy training and faux-sabotaged skydiving that most normal friendships can’t ever imitate, but in this moment Taron is still intensely grateful that he was cast for this film and that he met Sophie. 

Taron nudges her and smiles. “Thank you.”

-

Filming goes smoothly. Nobody suspects that Taron woke up looking like a trainwreck and everybody is in top condition. They finish up a lot earlier than they expected, so the entire recruit team plus Mark end up getting drinks together to celebrate a good day. They all head back in early, since they start filming at the crack of dawn tomorrow, but there’s a pleasant tranquility settling over Taron when he trudges into his room and flops over his bed with a happy sigh.

His mobile vibrates in his pocket, indicating a text message. He pulls it out and glances at it, then jerks up into a sitting position when he sees the sender is Colly Wobbles.

Colin’s text reads: **Livia’s been asking after you. She sends her regards.**

They’ve met a couple times, over the weeks of training and filming. Livia is effortlessly gorgeous and witty, engaging in a way that makes Taron feel included and warm. It’s a trait that she shares with Colin, being absurdly talented in making others feel good about themselves, even when Taron can hardly compare to either of them. 

Just makes his crush that much more pathetic, doesn’t it.

**You could just give her my number so she can tell me about the Barcelona incident without you to keep interrupting us. I need more blackmail material.** Taron dithers over whether he’s being too flippant or not, then decides he’s friendly enough with Colin and Livia to get away with it and sends the text. 

No response comes back for the next five minutes, and his heart sinks a little, wondering if his joke was out of line. He’s said far worse to Colin via text before, but they’d been working on the film together then, and while Taron’s made several lasting friendships from from stuff he’s worked on before, there’s no guarantee that his friendship with Colin is going to be one of them. That Colin isn’t going to simply fade into an acquaintance that he sees only at official events and business. 

Then Taron’s phone lights up with a text that says **Have some mercy. That kind of alliance isn’t kind to me at all.**

Fuck, Colin’s text messages are adorable sometimes. It wreaks all kinds of havoc on Taron’s emotions, and now his cock, because _have some mercy_ sounds like something Colin would say after Taron sucked him off for an hour or two, with three fingers up Colin’s arse, keeping him on the edge until Colin broke down and begged. It makes Taron not want to be kind at all, makes him want to be downright nasty and have Colin come down his throat and keep him there, keep sucking him until Colin writhed in oversensitivity. 

Another text comes in while Taron’s fantasizing.  **Besides, I’d rather not share.**

_That_ makes Taron’s semi-erection die a swift death. It shouldn’t surprise him, really, because he’s seen firsthand how much Colin adores Livia and the streak of possessiveness is kind of  ****hot, but it still stings.

**Don’t think she’d throw you over for me anyway. Shame.** Taron sends his reply, tentative. 

Fifteen seconds after he sends that, Colin calls him. 

Trying not to sound like he’s on the verge of a heart attack, Taron picks up and says, “Yeah?” He still sounds a bit breathless, but Colin doesn’t call him out on it.

“I’m afraid I gave you the wrong idea,” Colin says, his voice smoother than melting butter. “I meant that I’d rather not share _you_.”

The heart attack is starting to sound like a legitimate possibility now. Taron doesn’t need to check a mirror to know that his face is flushed red right now. “Oh.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up.” Colin sounds amused and fond all at once, his voice low. There’s a terrible intimacy in the way his voice purrs down Taron’s spine, like they’re having a hushed conversation in a closed space and Colin’s speaking against Taron’s skin.

Livia’s voice drifts over, as if she’s speaking from the other side of the room. “Tell him I don’t mind sharing my husband. He keeps forgetting to put his laundry in the hamper.”

Taron chokes on the laugh that bursts out of him at that, while Colin audibly sighs over the phone. “You heard her just fine, I suppose?”

“Looks like Livia and I get joint-custody, then,” Taron says, hating how his heart skips a beat at the joke.

“Well, aren’t I lucky,” Colin says. He sounds like he’s smiling. It’s terrible, how Colin is now miles away, still untouchable, and Taron wants to kiss him so bloody much that he thinks his heart might implode from sheer want. So fucking terrible.

-

Filming goes brilliantly for another three days, then there’s a snag in filming where Sophie almost dislocates her shoulder and some of the equipment breaks down. It’s not as much of a snafu as was the We-Almost-Drowned-On-Our-First-Day-Of-Filming incident for the underwater scene, but it’s still a very trying day. Matthew sighs a lot, and Taron actually forgets his lines halfway through a scene at one point, so by the time they’re edging into half-past ten and still far from done, Taron takes out his phone while the crew sets up the next scene.

“It’s a bad day,” he says as soon as Colin picks up.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How bad is it?”

“Iain was doing breathing exercises to relieve the stress. I think he’s ready to kill somebody.” Iain, their production manager, is their very own version of a real-life Merlin: unflappable and generally in control of everything that’s happening during filming. 

“It can get tense near the end of filming sometimes,” Colin reassures him. “As long as your director is reasonable and you’re doing your best, which I’m sure you are, you’re going to survive and walk away from a job well done.”

Taron sighs and leans back into his chair. His words come tumbling out of him before he can think better of it. “I miss you.”

There’s a short pause, a near-silent intake of breath, then: “As do I.”

Colin manages to make his words sound like a lover’s kiss to the inner thigh, full of meaning and intimacy. It makes Taron’s insides quiver.

Iain, looking calmer than he did thirty minutes ago, stops by and tells Taron that they’re ready. Still feeling a bit shuddery, Taron bids Colin a good night and goes to do his job.

-

Taron cries the day they wrap. Ed teases him for it, but they hug it out and promise to see each other soon. There’s a lot of hugging and cheering going on, with the additional moment of utter shock when Matthew pulls him aside and tells him that he’s producing a biopic about Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards in a couple years, and that he thinks Taron would do a fantastic job starring in it. He’s already put in a word with the director, and all he wants is Taron to give it a go and say yes when they hand him the script.

“You sound really sure about me getting the part,” Taron says.

Matthew smirks. “You have no idea how much people are going to love you.”

Later, after tearful goodbyes have been exchanged and Taron’s been bundled into the car so he can sleep his way home, he texts Colin about his conversation with Matthew.

**He’s right.** Colin’s text says, once Taron relays everything and is on the verge of dozing off. **You’ve no idea how much people love you.**

-

Home is terrific. He spends a lot of time with his mum and sister, relaxing and finally free from the training from hell. It’s a shame that he’s not going to be as muscular and fit as his Eggsy physique anymore, but eating his mum’s cooking and skipping out on the gym is heavenly. 

He messages back and forth with Colin and Ed and Sophie and even Mark, from time to time. He doesn’t miss working out at all, but he does miss being surrounded by everybody on set. Films are an amazing kind of bonding experience.

There are two more films lined up for filming during the rest of 2014, and possibly a press tour, if Kingsman is released within the year. This is the beginning of Taron’s career.

If he gives himself enough time and space, maybe he’ll get over this crush on Colin. It’s not like Taron has other options, since Colin is married and busy and all the way down in London. They barely have time to see each other and have lunch, let alone—well, have whatever the two of them could have. Eventually, Taron will move on, and maybe they’ll just have a normal friendship that consists of lots of text messaging and the occasional opportunity to see each other.

In the meantime, Taron resigns himself to guiltily wanking over Colin in the privacy of his room. Until he gets over this ridiculous crush.

-

It becomes rather obvious that the crush is not going away, several months later. In fact, Taron’s starting to suspect it isn’t just a crush.

Shortly after Taron finishes filming Testament of Youth, he realizes that Eggsy and Harry really don’t factor into the situation anymore. Taron’s feelings are just his own, and what he feels for Colin is completely separate from what Eggsy feels for Harry. Taron’s feelings are similar to Eggsy’s, but he can distinguish them clearly, with the benefit of hindsight and the experience of being Edward Brittain. 

In short: Taron’s fucked.

He glares blearily at his mug, which reads _Keep Calm and Love Colin Firth_. 

“Yeah, and now all I need is to be calm about it,” Taron mutters. He takes a sip of his tea and scalds his tongue in the process.

-

He’s going to be leaving home again to film Legend soon, and he has mixed feelings about that. It’s tiring, to be staying away from home for extended periods of time, away from his family, but he’s excited for this film. It’s going to be a hell of an experience. Colin tells him that Tom Hardy is an excellent person to work with, that he’s an actor worth learning from.

**I’m sure you two will get along very well** , Colin’s text says. If there’s any sarcasm in it, Taron can’t tell.

The thing is, though, Taron’s character is going to have a much more obviously physical relationship with Tom Hardy’s character than what Harry and Eggsy shared in front of the cameras. Not that Taron is shy or scared of being physical with a bloke in front of a camera; he’s not scared of getting naked or making out or simulating sex for the sake of filming. It’s part and parcel of being an actor.

What bothers Taron is that he doesn’t want to lick into Tom Hardy’s mouth or bite his shoulders or feel his hands sliding up Taron’s back. He doesn’t want Tom to find out what the inside of Taron’s mouth tastes like or how firm Taron’s arse is or what Taron looks like when he’s spreading his legs for him. 

He doesn’t want Tom to have any of that, not until Colin has it first.

Of course, just because Taron wants Colin to fuck him until he can’t walk doesn’t mean he has any way to make it happen.

-

A couple weeks before filming starts, Colin invites Taron to stay at his place for the week before Taron is due on set. His house is fairly close to Buckinghamshire, where Taron will be filming, and they haven’t seen each other in months. They should catch up, Colin insists. Livia is taking the boys to Italy and he’s staying in London for work, and he would rather have some company.

Taron says yes, because he’s not a damn saint and there’s only so much temptation a bloke can take, and resolves to wear his baggiest shirts for the entire week in case he ends up with a semi-permanent hard-on in Colin’s house.

-

“I wasn’t aware you wore glasses,” Colin says when he helps Taron settle in, carrying one of Taron’s bags to the guest room despite Taron’s protests. 

“My eyes hurt, so I skipped the contacts today.” Taron’s always been a bit self-conscious about wearing them, and he desperately tries not to hunch in on himself. “My eyesight’s not too bad, so I don’t wear them very often anyway.”

Colin sets Taron’s bag down and steps closer, an appraising look gleaming in his eyes. “You should. You look quite handsome in them.”

Taron almost squeaks. “Uh, I do?”

“Absolutely,” Colin says, all earnest and encouraging in that paternal way of his, with a glint of true appreciation. A sliver of heat. Taron could wear his glasses every day if it meant Colin looking at him like that all the time.

“Thanks, I guess.” Taron’s been in Colin’s house for a grand total of five minutes and he’s already sporting an erection. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t die of blue balls by the end of the week.

-

After a tour of the house, Taron watches Colin cook dinner and helps set the table, laying out plates and silverware while Colin deems the risotto edible. It’s awfully domestic, sitting across from Colin in Colin’s home, their ankles brushing as they eat and chat. Colin’s an animated talker, and he’s as easily distracted during meals as he was back at filming, occasionally smearing or spilling his food on random places before his spoon properly enters his mouth. He’s a bit of a disaster, in an endearing way, and Taron has to restrain himself from reaching over to thumb off the sauce on Colin’s chin and suck it into his own mouth. Or lick it directly off Colin’s skin. 

They talk about the new Kingsman trailer they’d been sent, now released worldwide, and discuss their excitement over every little detail they’d seen. They both agree that Gazelle’s legs are _wicked_ and that the parachute scene looks amazing. Colin admits his thrill at seeing a flash of the church scene and Taron jokingly bemoans how little of Eggsy there is in the trailer, despite being the main character.

“Not that I’m surprised. My face isn’t going to be drawing in the crowds like yours will,” Taron says, chuckling while he helps Colin load the dishwasher.

“People will remember you once they see the movie,” Colin says, ever-confident in Taron. “You’re the best part of it.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short there, mate. Matthew’s been crowing about how the church scene is going to be one of the best things he ever made.” Truth be told, the split-second of Colin as Harry reloading his gun in the chaos of the church had been enough to make Taron’s cock twitch. If he sees that scene in its full glory, he might just come in his pants untouched. 

“ _We_ are the best part of the movie, then,” Colin says, closing the dishwasher. They move towards the living room to after Taron refuses Colin’s offer of a drink, citing exhaustion from traveling. They end up seated on the couch, facing each other. “Now that I think about it, I wonder if anyone can tell from the trailer.”

Taron blinks in confusion. “Tell what?”

“You know, Harry and Eggsy.” Colin’s lips quirk up. “The chemistry.”

“I don’t think so?” Taron hedges, casually crossing his legs to prevent any stray erections from making their presence known. “Think you’d have to actually watch the movie to notice, if it’s even noticeable at all.”

“I do suppose it would depend on how they did the editing, but I believe it’ll be quite noticeable.” 

“Well, you _were_ eyeing me like you wanted to facefuck me into next week most of the time we were in the same scene,” Taron jokes, then wonders where the hell his brain-to-mouth filter went.

Colin stares at him, obviously surprised that Taron’s bringing up the more explicit side of this _thing_ they stopped talking about, ever since Taron was a sad, pathetic excuse of a drunk twat blaming Colin for the mess in Taron’s head. Truthfully, Taron’s surprised that he’s bringing it up, too. Actually, he’s pretty damn horrified.

“You know, I’m wiped. I’m not thinking properly,” Taron blabbers, standing from his seat. “I think I’ll just go get some sleep now.” 

“I—alright?” Colin looks a little lost. Unsure. “I’ve set out towels for you in the bathroom.”

“Awesome. I’ll just, um. Yeah.” Taron bolts from his seat and ducks into the guest room, wishing those damn amnesia dart watches were real so he could first wipe Colin’s memory, then inject himself so that neither of them could remember any of that conversation.

-

Taron takes a cold shower and refuses to touch his plump, aching cock for the entire duration of it, trying not to think of Colin ever using this bathroom, naked and wet and with maybe a handful of cock, pleasuring himself. 

After wasting cold water for ten minutes, Taron gives in and switches to hot water, then jerks off in record time. 

-

Taron, changed into a comfortable teeshirt and shorts, sits on the edge of his bed with his glasses on the bedside table, dithering over shuffling out of the room to bid Colin goodnight. He’d really rather go to sleep and hope that Colin has a spontaneous episode of amnesia overnight and forgets what happened in the living room, but on the other hand, Taron’s not sure he can even sleep while he’s this keyed up, and it feels rude to not say anything to Colin before he turns in for the night.

Just as he’s hesitating in front of the door, there’s a knock.

Without even thinking about it, Taron opens the door to see Colin, dressed in soft grey pyjamas that Taron wants to run his hands over, to rip them apart to reach bare skin. He shoves that train of thought as far away as he can and takes a step back. “Colin?”

“I needed to know,” Colin starts, then pauses. “Did you—back then, on set. Did I make you uncomfortable? With the Harry and Eggsy thing.”

Uncomfortable in the sense that Taron was uncomfortably turned on, yes, but Taron’s got a hunch that isn’t what Colin’s asking about. “No, Colin, you were doing it for fun, or being overly invested in character building, maybe. But if you’re asking if I felt upset or harassed, then no.”

“If I told you I meant it,” Colin says, quiet and very still. “Would that make you uncomfortable now?”

“What?” It’s like slipping and falling a very long distance down, where everything is in freefall and there’s an earth-shattering impact just waiting ahead. Except he doesn’t know how long this dreadful limbo of being suspended midair will last. “Colin, what are you talking about?”

“Everything I said,” Colin says. “What I said Harry wanted to do to Eggsy. If I said that I meant that for you, that I want to do those things to you. Would you be uncomfortable?”

If Colin meant every word, about bending him over, gagging him, _I’d like to see you ride me, wet and crying for it_ —

“You meant it as Harry, though,” Taron says, ignoring his twitching prick, torn between stepping closer to Colin and stepping back, because it’s going to hurt when he hits the ground, when he’s done falling. He already feels the phantom pain, expectations bleeding into reality. “You don’t mean—Colin, you don’t mean this.”

Colin’s eyes narrow, like he’s picked up on the thready note of hurt in Taron’s voice. “Taron.” The sound of his name rolling off of Colin’s tongue, full of exasperation and what sounds perilously close to adoration, shouldn’t make Taron’s knees feel weak, but it does. “This has nothing to do with Harry being in love with Eggsy.” Which answers a question Taron’s pondered over for a while. “It’s just you. It’s about how you devastate me, how I’ve been wanting to take you to bed for so many months. How I am completely mad for you.”

“But you’re married,” Taron says on autopilot, his whole body going hot and wanting at Colin’s words, all of Taron’s pitiful defenses crumbling.

“Livia and I have an understanding,” Colin says, emboldened by Taron’s weak parry, taking a step into the room. “She really did mean it, when she said she’s willing to share me, back then.” He smiles weakly. “She’s the one who told me to stay in London and ask you here and be truthful with you.”

Taron stares at him. “You really…want me?”

“You brilliant, gorgeous, maddening creature,” Colin sighs, taking another step forward, stopping right in front of Taron. “I’m telling you that I’m dreadfully in love with you, and I’m asking that you put me out of my misery and tell me if you feel the same.”

They’re standing so close to each other that Taron can _smell_ Colin, the scent of clove and vanilla. Right now, with Colin’s cards on the table and his face naked and vulnerable, full of want and trust and apprehension, Colin doesn’t seem so untouchable. Taron could trace his fingertips up the sides of Colin’s neck, slide his palms up the cut of his jaw, frame his face with two hands. He does just that, relishing the warmth, the trembling of Colin’s skin under his own. 

“I’m in love with you too, you utter berk,” Taron says, and there, he feels the impact, the ground shattering under him, and it feels fantastic. “Now will you please just _kiss me already_.”

He’s barely finished speaking when Colin is crashing down on him, kissing him with a hunger that scorches all of Taron’s insides, has him gasping and pulling Colin down harder, closer. Colin licks into Taron’s mouth, one hand tangling in Taron’s hair and the other sneaking down and squeezing an arse cheek, pulling Taron tight against Colin’s chest. 

There’s no coyness or hesitation in the way Colin tilts Taron’s head back to invade his mouth and ravish it more effectively, or in the way he hauls Taron bodily closer with a proprietary hand kneading Taron’s arse like he owns it. It’s like Colin has already claimed Taron as his own and he’s merely exercising his right to unravel Taron as he pleases, and that thought shouldn’t be so arousing as it is. Taron wants Colin to mark him up, own him down to his very bones, wreck him so bad that Taron will never be the same ever again.

“Oh god,” Taron gasps when Colin finally releases his mouth in favor of licking a hot wet stripe up his neck and smearing an open-mouthed kiss across his jaw. 

The hand on Taron’s arse slides inwards, grazing against Taron’s inner thigh and creeping up along the inner curve of his arse. Even with Taron’s underwear and shorts on, there’s no mistaking the pressure of Colin’s fingertips ghosting over his arsehole, and _fuck_ , Taron has to tighten his arms around Colin’s shoulders when his knees threaten to give out underneath him. 

The hand that’s been keeping Taron’s head in place slides down to flatten firmly against his back, supporting him so that Taron’s head can loll back as he moans at the sting of Colin’s teeth at the juncture between neck and shoulder, leaving a mark. 

Taron’s erection is pressed against Colin, not getting much friction, and every time he attempts to rub against the solid length of Colin’s thigh, relieve himself a little, the fingertips at his arsehole dig _in_ , making Taron’s hips stutter and falter. Feeling a little vengeful and painfully turned on, Taron utters a plaintive sound and distracts Colin from sucking on his throat by biting down on Colin’s ear. Colin fucking _growls_ approvingly at that, holy shit.

“Dearest, I’m going to throw you on the bed now. Can you get naked in fifteen seconds after I do that?” Colin asks, hands roaming all over Taron over his shirt and shorts, and Taron wants to find out what that feels like on his bare skin.

“Be done in ten,” Taron says, grinning. Colin’s answering smile is a wide, joyful thing that glows and makes Taron’s heart flutter, right before Colin hoists Taron up and throws him onto the bed.

Taron doesn’t waste any time, stripping out of his sleepwear and briefs in record time, throwing them to the floor and looking up to see Colin stepping out of his pyjama bottoms and underwear. They both take a moment to drink in the sight of each other. Colin is gorgeous, no surprise there, with a lovely cock that Taron’s going to be able to feel tomorrow, given how thick it is. 

“You’re stunning,” Colin breathes, and Taron would accuse him of empty flattery if it weren’t for the soft look of wonder on his face, like he can’t believe his luck at having Taron in bed with him, right here. 

When Colin climbs onto the bed, Taron pulls him into a kiss, gentler than the previous one. He sucks on Colin’s lower lip and licks at the tender insides of Colin’s mouth, does his best to convey how lucky he feels to be here, to have Colin at his fingertips. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Colin murmurs, smoothing a large hand down Taron’s chest, fingers catching on a hardening nipple and sending a jolt of sensation crackling at Taron’s spine. He feels like an empty canvas aching to be filled. He wants Colin’s fingerprints all over him.

“Touch me,” Taron pleads, breathless, pressing Colin’s hands to his chest and the jut of his hipbone. “I need you to touch me.”

Colin kisses the curve of Taron’s shoulder, follows the ridge of his collarbone with his lips and tongue. His hands map out the eager expanse of Taron’s body, measuring the quivering length of his thighs and digging into the softer parts of his stomach.

“My abs aren’t as nice as they were at filming,” Taron says, feeling exposed and shy even though he knows he’s still in pretty good shape. He nearly kicks himself over how pathetic he sounds.

“I think they’re exquisite the way they are right now,” Colin purrs, and leans down to nip at the skin of Taron’s belly.

Taron squeaks. “Oh jesus fuck—”

Colin takes his fucking time, kissing wetly and laving his tongue downwards like he’s going to devour Taron alive. He skirts around Taron’s groin, avoiding his leaking cock and instead lavishing attention to the crease where groin joins thigh, sucking at the tender skin there in a way that makes Taron whine in a pitch he never knew he was capable of hitting.

“Do you remember what I told you?” Colin asks into damp skin, mouthing his way across the inside of Taron’s thigh and kissing the inside of a knee. “What I said about learning how you taste. Do you remember?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Taron gasps. He remembers Colin, masquerading in Harry’s voice, promising to taste him in his most intimate places, to lick him out, to _have you wet and crying for it_. Those words have been haunting Taron’s wanking sessions for _months_.

Colin’s voice is demure when he says, “I’d like to do that now, if you don’t mind,” but there’s nothing reserved about how he slides a finger into the cleft of Taron’s arse, stroking over his hole.

_Yes please,_ Taron’s entire body sings, his knees spreading apart and hips tilting in silent permission without any input from his brain. His mouth moves automatically, brain-to-mouth filter long-gone, stumbling over the words as he flushes hot all over at the admission: “I’ve never, uh. Done this.”

“No one’s ever put their mouth here before?” Colin asks, pressing his finger inwards, just enough for Taron to open up around him the slightest bit. Taron bites down on the urge to beg and instead shakes his head. “What a pity. I’ll have to rectify that, then.”

Colin shoves a pillow under Taron’s hips and lies down on his front, lifting Taron’s legs over his shoulders and pulling him closer. Once they’re both settled, Colin spreads Taron’s cheeks open and…doesn’t move.

Taron struggles up onto his elbows to see Colin admiring the view. “Don’t just _look_ at it,” Taron hisses, blushing.

“I was whetting my appetite.” Colin takes another moment before he ducks his head and licks a broad stripe over Taron’s hole. From there, he presses a filthy open-mouthed kiss into Taron’s arse, wriggling his tongue inwards, thumbs digging into Taron’s flesh so he can spread him wide and delve deeper. 

The slick warmth of Colin’s tongue inside of Taron is perfect, making Taron keen loudly at the sensation. Taron’s insides feel like molten metal, heavy and liquidated and scorching, like the very composition of himself is being rearranged with every lick and kiss. Colin alternates between playing with Taron’s sensitive rim, tonguing it with a determined precision that has Taron clenching on nothing and whining, and testing just how far he can stick his tongue into Taron’s arse. The penetration of the wet muscle is both consolation and _not enough_ , the tension in Taron’s gut mounting so slow in such tiny increments that he’s almost sure he’s not getting any closer to coming at all.

Taron attempts to curl a hand around his neglected cock, curved against his stomach and leaking precome all over himself, but Colin catches his hand, sends it back to clutching the bedcovers. “Patience, darling.”

“If I die from this I’m going to haunt you,” Taron says, barely stringing the words together between pants and noises that he’d rather die than admit that he’s making them. Colin muffles a chuckle into Taron’s taint, which should _not_ be a turn-on, for fuck’s sake. 

After Taron squirms pointedly, Colin makes an acquiescing noise and resumes eating Taron out with fervor. A few full-body shudders later, there’s this odd tingle sliding down the cleft of Taron’s arse. Taron tries to pinpoint what it is for a few scant moments before he realizes that it’s Colin’s spit, dribbling bit by bit from Taron’s hole as Colin slurps shamelessly into Taron. The knowledge that Taron’s open and _wet_ , like a bird who’s already come once and is panting for more, sends a flare of heat straight through Taron’s nerves.

“Oh god please, Colin, I can’t, I can’t,” Taron starts begging, too tightly wound to accomplish full sentences, his hand tangling in Colin’s hair instead of wrapping around his painfully hard cock. Even when he’s nearly mindless from pleasure, his body still clings to obedience, leaving his cock alone until Colin grants him permission.

“Can you come untouched?” Colin asks, raising his head. He looks _savage_. His hair curling everywhere and his face red with exertion, his entire mouth and jaw spit-slick and damp. 

Taron whines at the absence of Colin’s mouth on him, then registers the question. “I’ve never,” he pants, his gut tightening at the very thought of it.

“Looks like we’ll find out if you can,” Colin says, and dives back in.

It feels like bloody hours, Colin tonguefucking Taron like he eats people out for sport, everything else melting away until Taron’s just a raw nerve, begging incoherently, breath hitching. He’s so out of it that he doesn’t even realize Colin’s shoved two fingers in beside his tongue until those fingertips are stroking over his prostate, and then Taron’s screaming, his mind flagging behind his body, scrambling to understand why he’s spasming so until Colin’s touch gentles, so Taron can breathe.

Just when Taron’s heartbeat is about to settle back down, Colin’s presses against his prostate again, his free hand grabbing Taron’s hip and steadying him. Colin idly swirls the tip of his tongue around Taron’s rim, his fingers relentless, and Taron’s sobbing now, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, shedding his skin so all that remains is a pulsing riot of tension and held breath, a ruin of pleasurable agony. If someone were to ask, he wouldn’t be able to even remember his name.

Out of nowhere, Colin leans up and bites down on Taron’s nipple just as he presses hard against Taron’s prostate one more time.

Taron comes with a wail, shaking under Colin’s hands and spurting his spunk on both of their chests and bellies, his limbs flailing and then going limp as everything goes offline and reboots.

“It looks like you can come untouched after all,” Colin murmurs, curled around Taron and pressing chaste kisses to every bit of Taron his mouth can reach. There’s a firm hand on Taron’s stomach, grounding him, and Taron feels like he’s back in his own skin again, though a bit wobbly from the aftermath of the greatest orgasm of his life.

“Can you?” Taron asks. Clarifies: “Can you come without being touched?”

“It takes some work,” Colin says. “But yes, I can.” Taron’s mind immediately jumps to what he can do to Colin to achieve just that, but Colin heads his train of thought off with a fond smile and the shake of his head. “Not tonight. I have other plans.”

“What plans?” Taron asks, turning a bit to reach down and run a finger over Colin’s cock. A gratifying noise rips itself from the back of Colin’s throat, low and rumbling, much to Taron’s delight.

“Plans to spoil you for anybody else, of course,” Colin says, nudging Taron’s hand away with the restraint of a saint. 

Taron makes an amused sound, unable to help himself, and kisses Colin slow and sweet. He sighs happily against Colin’s mouth before he pulls away to look Colin in the eye.

“I’m pretty sure you accomplished that even before you got me into bed, you perfect human being.” He waits a moment to enjoy the besotted look on Colin’s face. Taron’s pretty sure he’s mirroring it. “But don’t let that stop you from your plans. I’m fully expecting you to fuck me so hard I feel it when I go on set for Legend.”

-

Colin’s masterplan at spoiling Taron silly involves stripping away the bedcovers and petting Taron until he’s sprawled comfortably on the sheets while Colin nips out to grab snacks, water, a wet cloth, lube, and condoms.

“I’ve discussed this with Livia already,” Colin prefaces, “and we’ve agreed that if you turned out to reciprocate my feelings, we’d use condoms for the first time and work out whether to keep using them or not. We’re both clean, and we’re alright with the lack of condoms if you’d rather not use them. If you’re amenable, we can discuss foregoing them at a later date.”

“I’m clean, so we definitely have to forego them at some point soon,” Taron says, popping another biscuit into his mouth and washing it down with water. “I want to try waking up with your come inside of me and have you fuck me like that, so I can be full and dripping for the entire day.”

Colin opens his mouth, closes it. Then opens it again. 

“You are a _menace_.”

-

Once they’ve settled with using the condoms for the first half of the week, just to see how it goes before they do it bare, Colin proves that he has the patience of a monk by batting Taron’s hands away from Colin’s cock and promptly taste-testing every lickable inch of Taron’s body.

After Colin’s tasted the spaces behind Taron’s ears and the sweat at his sternum, sucked at least nine different marks over Taron’s person, and fingerfucked Taron’s arse with three fingers for what seems like a decade, Taron is hard and desperate and _ready_.

“If you don’t get inside me right now,” Taron grits out, “I am calling up Livia to apologize for making her a widow.”

“Did I mention that I find your frustration quite charming?” Colin asks, because he’s actually a pervert of the highest degree underneath all those layers of politeness and harmlessness. 

Taron clenches down on Colin’s fingers and gives his prettiest moan. “Colin, I need you to fuck me, _please_.”

The growl that erupts from Colin’s throat is evidence that he’s a beast under those benign, gentlemanly trappings. He pulls his fingers out of Taron’s arse to rip open a condom, rolling it on with a deft hand and squeezing lube over the latex with the other. Taron barely has time to whine at the empty feeling inside of him before he’s pulled arse first onto Colin’s lap, straight onto his cock.

“Fuck,” Taron gasps, the expletive punched out of him as Colin sinks halfway in. Colin’s done a terrific job stretching him open, drenching the inside of Taron’s arse with lube to supplement the leftover slick from their rimming session, and the filthy squelching sounds of Colin’s cock sinking deeper and the sensation of being filled make Taron’s toes curl with a nasty kind of pleasure. The kind that spurs him on to shamelessly spread his legs and whine with greed, urging Colin to wreck him, ruin him until there’s nothing left for anybody else. “Oh god, fuck me.”

“I _am_ ,” Colin says with an insistent shove so that his balls slap against Taron’s arse, and shit, Colin is all the way in now. Taron just might die from how dirty and glorious that feels. “I was trying to take it slow, you wicked thing.”

“Is that a thing with you, going slow?” Even now, Colin isn’t moving, presumably allowing Taron to adjust, which is nice of him but not necessary at all. “Because at this pace, I’m not going to be able to have sex with you on every available flat surface of this house before the week is up.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take out the floor of my study from that list of flat surfaces. The carpet burn is outrageous.” Colin pauses. “The desk would be a better option.”

“I can handle carpet burn,” Taron protests.

“You won’t be saying that once I have you in the master bedroom. We just bought new sheets and they feel excellent on bare skin.” Colin grinds his hips in a slow circle that sends a jolt straight to Taron’s cock. “Though you shouldn’t worry. We’ll have much more than this week, if that’s what you want.”

Taron wraps his legs around Colin’s waist and pulls him in as deep as he can, enjoying the choked sound Colin makes at the motion. “I want everything you’re offering,” Taron reminds him. “But right now, I want you to fuck me through this mattress.”

Colin barks a strained laugh, leaning down to bite at Taron’s mouth before pulling out and snapping his hips forward, repeating the motion as his lips trail down Taron’s throat and chest. Every shove of Colin’s hips forces a whimper or soft broken noise from Taron, and he’d be embarrassed about it if his sense of shame hadn’t been fucked out of him already. Instead, he’s doing his best to clench his arse and wring more pleasure out of the experience, ankles digging into Colin’s back as he tries to gain more leverage and shove back into Colin’s thrusts.

Colin scrapes his teeth over one of Taron’s nipples and Taron shrieks, nearly smacking Colin’s face with a flailing elbow. “Leave off of those!”

“But you make such lovely sounds,” Colin says mock-innocently, “and they look so appetizing, all pink and swollen, just like those pouting lips of yours.” He lifts a hand from where he’s been tattooing his fingerprints onto Taron’s hip to pinch at the other nipple. “You’re very sensitive,” he adds in an approving voice.

“I’m in love with a pervert,” Taron despairs, not even fighting the blush crawling down his throat.

Colin makes an amused sound and hitches Taron’s hips higher with both hands, thrusting deeper and hitting Taron’s prostate, causing Taron to swear and writhe at the sudden onslaught of pleasure. “And I’m terribly grateful that you love me back, my darling. Don’t ever doubt how much I adore you.”

“Ngh,” Taron responds, his grasp on the English language slipping away from him.

“Beautiful,” Colin growls. “Beautiful and perfect and all bloody _mine_.” He punctuates the last word with particularly well-aimed slam of his hips, and Taron drops his head back and screams.

Colin fucks him through his orgasm, then pulls out and turns Taron over, settling him onto his knees and pressing him gently face-first into the sheets. Taron’s too dazed to mind how he’s been positioned, his mind filled with a pleasant haze as Colin enters him again, grinding into him lazily before fucking Taron quick and shallow. Colin’s plastered himself against Taron’s back, one arm looped around Taron’s waist and the other planted on the mattress. Once he’s got his breath back, Taron plucks Colin’s hand from where it’s been pressed to Taron’s stomach and guides it to where he’s turned his face to the side, sucking two fingers into his mouth.

“Shit,” Colin hisses, hips stuttering, and Taron grins around Colin’s fingers, swirls his tongue around them slow and easy. It takes a few more thrusts before Colin’s burying his face between Taron’s shoulder blades and groaning his release.

After a few silent moments of post-coital satisfaction, Colin peels himself Taron’s back and pulls out with care. Taron experimentally clenches his arse and yep, definitely going to be sore tomorrow. He feels his grin widen.

“Shall we move to the master bedroom?” Colin asks, binning the tied condom. “I’m afraid we’ve ruined the bedsheets in this one.”

Taron thinks about it. “I think we could sleep here tonight. I don’t think I can walk right now.”

“Of course, my apologies.” Colin smirks and nudges Taron onto his back to finish wiping him clean. “Perhaps you’ll need to take it easy tomorrow?”

Taron snorts. “I can take a bit of rough.” A thought occurs. “Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing you prove that you don’t have a gag reflex.” He listens to Colin’s laugh, waits for Colin to replace the bedcovers before he pulls him down to the bed. “Besides, tomorrow we’re gonna ruin those nice bedsheets you talked about.”

* * *

** Epilogue - 10 Months Later **

Taron looks at the open Skype window on his laptop screen and grins at Colin. “So guess which movie just crossed three-hundred-million dollars at the box office?”

“Let me guess,” Colin says. “Does it happen to be this movie I heard about with spies wearing bespoke suits and a montage of exploding heads? Because I think I might’ve heard about something like that.”

“Berk,” Taron says fondly. “Matthew’s excited, even if he refuses to say it out loud. The opening weekend in China was a smashing success, according to him. Sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”

“You’re busy in Germany right now, it’s understandable,” Colin says. 

“Still.” Taron sighs. “I wonder if Matthew would be up for another thank you video. Did you see that Matthew and I did a second one for Korea? It’s _insane_. I keep telling Matthew we should go there and film something.”

“The sequel, perhaps. If we get one.” Colin looks bemused. “If I even get to be in it, that is.”

“You have to be,” Taron assures him. “The internet has at least a dozen ways to explain how you survived. People will riot if you don’t come back. If it’s green-lighted, of course.”

“Have you been Googling fan theories again? Taron, dearest, are you trying to scar yourself for life?”

“I just wanted to check!” Taron defends himself, pouting at his webcam. Colin shakes his head at him. “And by the way, it worked. Lots of people are noticing.”

“Noticing what?”

“Harry and Eggsy,” Taron says. “There’s a lot of people who agree that Harry is Eggsy’s love interest. Actually, I think a lot of these people agree that they’ve been fucking and are an official couple. They’re calling it ‘Hartwin,’ you know, for Hart and Unwin. It’s like Brangelina. Except gayer and fictional.”

Colin laughs at that. “Don’t tell Matthew. He’s already made disapproving noises at us about the press tour.”

“I saw him laugh when I made the comment about Harry and Eggsy being lovers. I don’t think he cares.” Taron thinks it over. “Though he did tell me to stop staring at you like I wanted to jump your bones during the interviews.”

“If Matthew really cared, he wouldn’t have kept the take where I ad-libbed the ‘popping your cherry’ line.”

They both laugh about it, enjoying the precious time they can share while Taron is filming in Germany and Colin is back in England. Their schedules have rarely matched up since they’d been together at the Kingsman premiere a couple months ago. Taron sighs, taking in Colin’s hair, fluffy and unkempt, and the curves of his smile.

“I miss you.”

“As do I,” Colin says. “You said you’re not sure about your schedule after you wrap in May?”

“Nope. I think I might have some events or something—gotta check with my publicist—but yeah, I’m probably heading home and taking a break.” Taron hums. “Could drop by Chiswick first, if you’re gonna be there.”

“Livia and I were thinking about heading out to our place in Italy, enjoy the sun for a while before I start filming the Donald Crowhurst film. The boys have school so they’ll have to stay in London, but we thought we could use a vacation.” Colin smiles, soft and hopeful. Taron wants that smile pressed onto his skin, against his lips. In this moment, he misses Colin fiercely. Would crawl into the screen and snog him if he could. “You could join us. I have to be back in London by May 18th, so you can come back with us and go home from there.”

“I’d love that.” Taron grins at the prospect of extended time with Colin and Livia. “We should celebrate the Kingsman box office record.” Preferably in bed. And the bathtub. And the couch, kitchen counter, against the walls—it’d be just like their first week together.

“To Harry and Eggsy,” Colin says, raising an imaginary toast. “For giving us an excuse to flirt and eventually get our act together.”

“To us, for getting them together in the first place,” Taron reminds him. 

Clinking imaginary champagne glasses with Colin via webcam, Taron thinks back to when he hadn’t even thought of Harry as a potential love interest for Eggsy. Now, eighteen months after Taron’d first stepped foot on the Kingsman set, Taron can’t even imagine a life where Harry and Eggsy—Hartwin, yeah—never was a thing. Where he and Colin aren’t in love.

In his soppier moments, Taron likes to think they were meant to be.

(He decides not to tell Colin about Firtherton yet, though. Taron kind of regrets looking up fan theories on the Internet.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> writing tumblr: [divineprojectzero](http://divineprojectzero.tumblr.com)  
> main tumblr: [listentotheshityousay](http://listentotheshityousay.tumblr.com)  
> twitter: [@listento_yousay](http://twitter.com/listento_yousay)
> 
> Special thanks to Jill, Ayla, Kallie, and Tori for fostering this fic into existence. I couldn't have done it without you.


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